In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,69

mentioned that I wanted to examine any relevant case files.

“A capital idea,” Tom said, swinging around in his chair energetically. “Surely the files can help with some of the information we’re missing.” He glanced at his watch; it was already nearly nine o’clock. “Mrs. Leab should be in by now—I’ll ask her to bring them to us.”

In addition to light housekeeping and cooking duties, Mrs. Leab kept appointments for all three professors, typed their letters and formal reports, and engaged in limited filing duties. Tom returned with her after just a few moments, each of them carry ing a stack of thick files. CASE NOTES / OCTOBER 1903” read the label on each, with sublabels designating the more specific material contained therein. Though unsurprisingly, there was no overt reference to Michael Fromley’s confession. Tom divided the papers into two stacks. We each read silently, trading papers as we finished them, until we had digested the material contained within. The body of material primarily consisted of Alistair’s case notes, but observations by Fred Ebbings, copies of police reports detailing the circumstances of Moira Shea’s murder, and newspaper clippings covering the same were also included.

I have a terrible memory for criminals themselves. Unless there is anything particularly unusual about a criminal’s personality or the crime itself, the facts of one case blend together with the others in my mind. And yet, I remember each and every victim with a clarity that astounds me. Each haunts me—and Moira Shea began to do so that morning, the moment she assumed shape and form from the scant facts I gleaned about her in the reports. She had recently trained as a nurse at the Bellevue Training School for Nursing and was working her first job, as a private nurse for an elderly woman on East Sixty-first Street. She occasionally volunteered at Miss Wald’s Henry Street Nurses Settlement. One police officer speculated that her murder was premeditated, committed by someone she had encountered while working in poor neighborhoods. This struck me as unlikely; the nurses who tended to the sick were so badly needed in the roughest of areas, they were welcomed, never hurt.

The pictures in Moira Shea’s file showed a woman with strong features. Her hair was piled high atop her head and she wore glasses with simple frames. From her expression alone, I could imagine she had not easily succumbed to her killer. That was confirmed when I found the coroner’s report detailing the significant number of defensive wounds she suffered; she had fought her attacker vigorously.

Moira Shea was twenty-one when she was stabbed to death in a vacant warehouse near the East River in August 1902. The autopsy report indicated there was no evidence of sexual assault, although some of her clothes were missing when her body was found. As Alistair had mentioned last night, Moira was last seen traveling downtown on the Second Avenue El by witnesses who came forward later. Those on the car near her described a man oddly dressed; he wore a brown trench coat despite the summer heat. His behavior had attracted attention, too; he had mumbled to himself and stared at each woman on the El intently. He had gotten off at Moira’s stop, following in her direction, yet apparently keeping his distance. Witnesses could say nothing more; several were alarmed they had not intervened or at least taken him more seriously at the time.

After thoroughly reviewing this evidence, I turned my attention to Fromley’s confession. I saw immediately that Alistair had been right on at least one count: Fromley’s story was full of troubling discrepancies. According to the police report, Moira had been stabbed fourteen times; yet Fromley stated he “couldn’t remember” if he had stabbed her more than once or twice. Her stab wounds were about the face, hands, and chest; yet Fromley claimed to have beaten her with his fists, then slit her throat. The coroner had estimated her time of death as around six o’clock in the evening; Fromley maintained he killed her near midnight, after “enjoying her company” for the evening. That was a euphemism for the sort of sexual violation the coroner’s report explicitly ruled out.

In evidentiary terms, Alistair was right to be less than entirely convinced by this confession. Had I been the police officer in charge of questioning Fromley, so many discrepancies would have raised real questions in my mind, as well. And yet, that was precisely the point: Alistair had taken it upon himself to make that judgment